


An Encounter In Paris

by afteriwake



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was alone and in Paris when a man from her past comes back into her life. Neither of them are the same as they were in the past, and that leads to a very different encounter now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between episode 5 of the “Pond Life” prequels and “Asylum of the Daleks." So this is my first entry for round 2 of the fanfiction contest at [wholockians](http://wholockians.livejournal.com). I’m using prompt #3, specifically the lyrics “But guilt's a language you can understand.” I hadn’t originally intended for it to be multi-part but what can I do?

She was alone.

Rory was gone. Gone from their home, gone from her life. She’d let him go, which was probably a huge mistake but she couldn’t give him what she knew he wanted. Damn Madame Kovarian, damn the Silence, damn all of them. They took something from her which she hadn’t realized she wanted so badly, and there was nothing she could do about it. Young and barren, and married to a man who wanted children. So she let this wonderful man go, sent him packing because not being with her would be a kindness.

And she was in Paris, wandering the city in between a photography session at the Musée du Louvre and a session at the Eiffel Tower, when she ran into him. A ghost from her past, the only man she’d wanted to strangle and screw at the same time. And he was supposed to be dead. “Suicide of fake genius” had been splashed everywhere. But he felt solid, not transparent like a ghost. “Sherlock,” she said quietly as she offered him her hand to pull himself up.

He did not look happy to see her, did not seem pleased to be recognized. But he took her hand and got up off the ground. “Amelia,” he said.

“You’re not dead,” she said, letting go of his hand as he dusted himself off.

“Yes,” he said. “Keep that fact to yourself, please.”

“Why? Why would you do it?” she asked. “Why would you jump off a roof and pretend to be dead?” She could feel herself getting angry. She’d gone to the funeral. She’d visited the grave twice afterwards. She had said her good-byes to the arrogant jerk she’d fancied all those years ago, the one who had been an ally in her teenage rebellion, the one who had wormed his way into her very soul and never quite left.

He looked around, then grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from the busy street. She let him, and when they went into an alley she stopped halfway down. He let go of her arm and began to pace in front of her. “People would have been executed if I hadn’t,” he said quietly. “People I hold dear. I did it for them. I wanted to keep them safe. And now I’m taking down a criminal organization to ensure their safety.” He stopped in front of her. “If you know what’s good for you, Amelia, you’ll forget you’ve seen me today. Go back to your life of modeling and merry wedded bliss.” She barked out a laugh, and he looked surprised. “What on Earth was that for?”

“I’m getting divorced. You must have been away from England a long time now.”

He looked at her closely. “I didn’t know.”

She shrugged. “He wants children. I can’t give him any. Better for both of us if he finds someone who can.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Why are you sorry? You never wanted kids,” she replied, looking down at her feet. “It was just another way you were different than him.”

Sherlock began to say something but there was a noise at the mouth of the alley. Sherlock glanced that way, then turned back to Amy. “I’m sorry for this.”

“For what?” she asked as he pulled her closer. But then his lips were on hers. She was surprised at first, but the spark was still there, damn him, the spark that nearly pulled her away from Rory forever. After a moment she realized it was a ruse, their kiss, but it had been months since she’d been kissed and she had never quite let Sherlock go in her heart. And either he was very good at faking it or else he was getting very into the kiss. After a few moments he pulled away, a dazed look on his face. She licked her lips slightly and realized her heart was racing and thundering in her ears.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured.

“Probably not,” she replied. “But you needed cover, and a couple making out in an alley would get ignored, yeah?”

“Yes,” he replied with a nod. He hadn’t let go of her yet, and so she purposefully took a step back. Space. She needed space. His arms moved from around her and they looked at each other nervously. “I should get going.”

“When’s the last time you had a decent meal?” Amy asked.

“A few days ago.”

She turned to her purse and dug through it, pulling out her hotel key card. “I’m in room 539. Go there, order room service, and catch a nap while I’m at my next shoot. I can get another card from reception.” She pressed it into his hands. “And wait for me there and you can explain more.”

His fingers curled around the card. “All right, Amelia.” And with that he pocketed the slim plastic card and walked back to the entrance of the alley, flipping the collar of his jacket up to keep away the cold, and she found herself wondering what on Earth she had been thinking.


	2. Chapter 2

_She’d fancied Rory, but he was gay. He had to be! She’d known him nearly her entire life and never once had he shown interest in a girl. And it was a shame, too, because he’d be a good catch. But she put it out of her mind on this trip to London. Her grandparents had insisted on a visit, and she was excited. If she couldn’t have Rory she’d find some hot young Londoner and try and have her way with him. Teenage hormones were wonderful, she thought to herself._

_They were staying at her grandparent’s home and she kept seeing this tall, lanky young man with curly black hair and the most brilliant eyes lurking around the street. It took some asking, but she found out his name was Sherlock Holmes and he lived next door. He was only twenty and he was trouble, according to her grandmother. He just became a million times more interesting to her._

_He was an occasional drug user as well as a heavy smoker, and while she didn’t like the first part she didn’t mind the smoking, and once she got him to take an interest in her they talked. They talked for hours and hours about all sorts of things, sharing packs of cigarettes and ignoring the rest of the world. For that summer, at least, she felt less like Amelia Pond, forgotten girl with the fairytale name, and more like Amy Pond, subject of at least one man’s attention. It was a nice feeling._

It didn’t take long for the man at the reception desk to give her a new card. He didn’t say anything about the fact her card had been used hours earlier, and she was grateful for that. In the back of her mind during the shoot she’d wondered what on Earth had possessed her to give him the card and tell him to wait. Giving him the card to get a good meal and some rest, that she could understand. That was leftover from that summer in London, where he was too skinny and too wired and manic all the time. But the waiting…that could only lead to trouble.

She got in the elevator and went to the fifth floor, trying to clamp down on the nervousness. She’d had dinner with the photographer and two glasses of wine, trying to not be nervous about the man waiting for her in her room. When she got to her door she realized her hand was shaking slightly, but she got the key card in and opened the door. She could see the room service tray from the doorway, and when she got further into the room she could see the plates and silverware on the table. So at least he ate. That was good. She could hear the muted sounds of a television from the bedroom, and she slowly made her way over to it, opening the door.

The television was set on a French channel, and she could tell it was a news broadcast. She looked at the bed and Sherlock was there, sitting on the edge of it. She had been gone six hours; if he had rested she couldn’t tell. He had discarded his coat and scarf, and his shoes were off. The top button of his shirt was undone, and she found herself staring. She snapped out of it when he said “Did anyone ever tell you it was impolite to stare?”

“Sorry, just taking in the changes,” she said, shaking her head. She lifted a leg up slightly and took off one shoe, then the other, and dropped them on the ground before kicking them to the side. Then she shrugged out of her jacket and undid her scarf and went to go hang them up in the closet.

“Thank you, for the food and the chance to rest,” he said, and she could feel that he was watching her.

“Least I could do. You look too skinny again. If you don’t take good care of yourself you’ll end up getting sick.” She finished putting away her coat and scarf and went to go sit at the end of the bed, next to him. “So. Tell me about what’s going on.”

“There was a man. Moriarty. He was a fan. He was also psychotic. He had become a ‘consulting criminal,’ and he decided to play a game with me. In the end he killed himself on the roof of St. Bart’s, right before I jumped.”

“If he was dead, why did you jump?”

“Because he’d set things up so that if I didn’t die that day my friends would die. As I said, he was psychotic. But I faked my death, and since then I’ve been working to take down the criminal empire he has set up. It will be a long while until I’m done.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. He looked down at it, then to her. “I won’t tell anyone you’re alive, I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding once. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” She removed her arm, and she could have sworn she saw a look of disappointment in his eyes. Then she saw she was looking at her closely. “What is it?”

“You’ve been drinking,” he said simply.

“I had some wine with dinner,” she said with a sigh. “I can handle two glasses of wine.”

“You used to hate alcohol,” he said.

“That was years ago. I’ve developed a taste for wine now.” She shrugged slightly. “I drink more now, mostly because when I drink I don’t feel so sad. I don’t feel like a colossal idiot.”

“If you can’t give him what he wants then its best if he finds it elsewhere. It would make for a miserable marriage,” Sherlock said.

“That’s what I was thinking.” She looked at him. “Do you drink?”

“Seldomly.”

“It’s not fun to drink alone, and I think I’d like another glass. Would you care to have a drink with me?”

He looked at her closely. She was never sure of the way his brain worked, she’d never been able to figure that out. But she could see it working, see him weighing options and such. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “All right. But only one glass.”

Amy grinned at him. “Good. I’ll go call room service and get a bottle sent up. You don’t mind red wine?”

“Red is fine.”

She got up and went to the nightstand, dialing the extension for room service and placing her order. When she was done she looked at him. “You won’t regret it, Sherlock.”

“I certainly hope not.”


	3. Chapter 3

Drinking with Sherlock was not like drinking with Rory, she realized. He seemed to get more somber and more talkative. He had his one glass, and then another. She didn’t ask why he had more. She was on her second and finding that, tonight at least, wine did not make her feel like less of an idiot. It made her feel lonelier than she had felt since she had let Rory go.

But one thing wine does, whether you drink a lot of it or drink very little, is lower your inhibitions. She was lonely, And she didn’t want to feel alone, and Sherlock was there, and he was lonely too. She knew nothing should happen; that ship had passed on years ago, when they had been young and stupid. Now they were older and battle scarred and maybe were still a little stupid, though they hid it better now.

This time it was her lips to find his, a soft kiss to stop another stream of ramblings on how futile this all was. He was doing what he was doing to help, and it wasn’t futile, and she just wanted him to stop talking and kiss her. He did kiss her back, a kiss that nearly stole her breath away, a kiss like the ones she used to share with her husband. A kiss that reminded her she was alive and beautiful and desirable.

He snaked a hand along her cheek to tangle his fingers in her hair, and she used the movement to put a hand on his waist, pulling up his shirt slightly and touching warm flesh underneath. The kiss deepened and if it hadn’t been for the need to breathe she never would have stopped. But they pulled apart, and he kept his hand in her hair and she kept her hand on his waist. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said.

“I know,” she said, her voice a low groan. She knew they shouldn’t; she was still married to Rory, and while she had cared for Sherlock she didn’t love him. But wine and need and frustration were hard adversaries to cold logic. She wanted tonight. She wanted a chance to feel a genuine connection again.

He didn’t move away, though, and instead pulled her in for another kiss. Whether this was right or wrong didn’t matter to him, she realized, and she didn’t want it to matter to her, either. She kissed him greedily, biting his lip lightly at one point. He brought his hand from her hair and moved it to her shoulder, then down her arm, his fingers tracing her supple flesh lightly, and then settling down to her waist.

She had succeeded in pulling his shirt from his pants, and had moved her hands to the buttons. She started with the bottom and worked her way up, and when it was open she placed her palms on his chest. He felt warm, so very warm, and solid beneath her fingers. She had missed this, so much. She slid her hands up to his shoulders and pushed the shirt off, and only then did he move his hands away from her.

When the shirt was off he began to work on hers, his hands going to the bottom hem and lifting, and she lifted her arms up so he could get it off. Both shirts were tossed without a care and as she lowered her arms he moved his hands around her back to undo her bra. It took him a moment but then it was off and tossed to the side as well.

He didn’t kiss her again, this time moving to her neck and nipping at it. Rory didn’t do this. Rory never liked hurting her, and this felt good. Sherlock remembered from that summer what she liked. That was impressive. And she remembered what he liked, as she put both her palms on his back and raked her nails down his back. He nipped harder as he shuddered, and she grinned in satisfaction. Pain could be nice sometimes.

He made his way lower, to her collarbone, and then he turned them so she was on the bed and he was hovering above her. She looked at him in the eyes before he dipped his head down and kissed the valley between her breasts, nipping skin as he went. She had her hands on his back, her nails digging into his skin, and for just a moment everything felt perfect. She could forget that this wasn’t her husband, and feel that this was all right.

He had taken a hand and run it up along her leg, first her lower leg and then her thigh, his hand skirting the hem of her skirt. And she shuddered slightly as his fingers slipped under the hem. But by then it was too much, and as good as this felt she knew that in the morning the guilt would rear its ugly head and she wouldn’t be able to look herself in the mirror. 

“Stop,” she said quietly. Then she shook her head. “Stop, please,” she said louder. To his credit, he did. He pulled away from her, his hands and lips leaving her body. She looked him in the eye and saw something she hadn’t expected: understanding. He understood why she wanted to stop. She looked around, found her bra, then sat up more and put it on without looking at him. “I’m sorry. I lead you on and I’m a tease and you should just go before I make a fool of myself.”

“It’s all right,” he said quietly, moving from being in front of her to being next to her. “I never should have agreed to that second glass of wine.”

“Yeah, but I kissed you. I just wanted you to stop talking so I kissed you and then it went too far. I’m still married and I still love my husband.” She clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I’m sorry.”

“But I kissed you back. It makes me equally to blame.”

She turned to look at him, and gave him a wry smile. “God, what a pair we make. We’re both trying to take the blame for a colossally bad decision.”

“You feel guilty. Guilt is something I understand,” he said. Then he stood up. “I should go.”

She reached over and took his hand. “If it’s all right, I’d like it if you stayed. Nothing has to happen, but I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.” She looked up at him. “Please, Sherlock.”

“All right,” he said after a moment.

“I’m going to change in the bathroom,” she said. She got up and went to the drawers of the dresser, pulled out a tank top and a pair of sleep pants. She went to the bathroom and took off her bra again, then slipped the tank top on. Then she took off her skirt and put on her sleep pants. She looked at herself in the mirror and while she still felt guilty at least she didn’t hate the very sight of herself.

She went back to the bedroom to see Sherlock sitting on the bed, shirt off but pants on, waiting. He had turned off the television, and stood up when she came back in. She went to the bed and climbed in, and he got in on the other side and pulled her close against him, an arm wrapped around her waist and her back to his chest. “Good night, Amelia,” he said.

“Good night, Sherlock,” she said, and then she began to drift off to sleep. Her last thought that night was that while she wished it was Rory holding her, she was glad that, at least tonight, she wasn’t alone.

It had been too much to hope for that he would be there when she woke up. But she woke up alone in bed, and when she finally got out of bed she found he wasn’t there. He’d put his plates and silverware back n the food service tray, and in its place was a note, written on hotel stationary. She picked up the folded piece of paper and opened it, beginning to read.

_Amelia,_

_I am not the type to express emotion openly. Last night I let my guard down. I believe you did as well. It is for the best that nothing more happened. You need love in your life, and I would never be able to give you that. If you believe it’s your best decision to leave your husband then I wish you luck in finding someone new. But if I’m right, you will find every man wanting and less than him. I will just be the first. I know I am not one to give advice on love, but because of our history I believe I can say, with all certainty, that you’ll regret letting him leave for the rest of your life._

_Sherlock_

She folded the note back up and felt a tear slip down her cheek. That man…he was too smart for his own damn good. Always had been, always would be. She put the note back on the table and went back to her room to get ready for the day. It was up to her now, what she did with her life. And she found herself praying that Sherlock would be okay in what he needed to do as well.


End file.
